


Two of Us

by someforeignband



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: John Lennon/Paul McCartney in Paris, M/M, Paris (City), The Paris Trip in 1961, i hope you all enjoy, i love them, no smut in this one but I could do smut if you wanted, oh yeah baby, there's something about two dorks in love dude, wow there's a tag for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:21:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25256833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someforeignband/pseuds/someforeignband
Summary: John and Paul travel to Paris for John's birthday in 1961.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	Two of Us

**Author's Note:**

> First off I want to apologize for not posting for a while, with everything that’s going on I wanted to kinda go dark on all forms of media for a bit to take time for black creators and internet presences to have time to be in the spotlight and to speak about what’s going on. On top of that, holy shit the world is a fucking mess right now and posting during this time still feels borderline disrespectful… but writing is something I do for fun, and I missed posting. I promise I’ll get back to posting on a semi-normal schedule,,,, recently the shit storm that is 2020 has really just taken over :( However, I do think that at this time it is incredibly important to focus on supporting black voices, and the crises that are going on right now !! and in the end notes I have attached a link to copy and paste that has a ton of petitions that you can sign to help bring justice to those who have been deprived of it for so long. That being said, I missed all of you, and I hope you enjoy this little one shot I put together for you guys ! I know it’s not an update on the other books you guys probably wanted but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless :) Take care, all of you !! xxx
> 
> https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co  
> https://yemencrisis.carrd.co  
> https://currentinfo.carrd.co

The audible snap of the camera lens opening and closing broke the dense silence of the room, John startling awake from where he was napping peacefully in the bed pushed against the wall of the room. 

“Sorry,” Paul murmured, setting the camera down on the nightstand, heat flooding to his cheeks. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” he furthered, looking down at his dirty shoes against the dirty carpet. The leather of his shoes had been worn and weatherbeaten on the journey over from Liverpool. It’d been tiring, so it’s honestly no wonder that John fell asleep on the large bed as soon as they’d reached their hotel room. Paul would’ve liked to take a nap, or at least he supposes that he would’ve had he not been so bloody nervous about it all. 

“It’s alright, lad,” John mumbles, rubbing his eyes aggressively with the heel of his hand. “No harm done, probably best if ‘m awake anyroad, need to be able to sleep tonight if we’re really trying to get to Spain.” John throws his legs over the side of the bed, sitting there for a few moments, scrubbing a hand through his hair. It’d gone wispy and flat from his short stint asleep, curling softly around his face, framing it. 

“Yes, I suppose that would make sense,” Paul replied, trying to seem like his usual chirpy self, but there was just something nagging.  _ Why had he been invited on this trip in the first place? Wasn’t it sort of like, you know, overstepping? Why hadn’t John invited Stu?  _ Paul had always thought that there was something more between John and Stu that he couldn’t put a finger on, but John choosing to invite him here, inviting him on a birthday holiday…  _ John didn’t think of him like that, did he? He couldn’t possibly be someone that John really cared about. Not like that, surely. Yes, they’d once kissed, but they were pissed to all hell. And it’s not that he wasn’t so incredibly excited to be on holiday with John, it’s just that it all felt… like something a little too close to what Paul was afraid of getting roped into. Not that he didn’t want it, just that… oh it was all terribly complicated.  _

Getting up and walking over to the tiny window on the far side of their grungy hotel room. Placing his hands on the windowsill he craned his neck down to look at the street below them “Hey, Macca,” John mused, turning his attention toward where Paul sat. 

Jolting away from his thoughts, Paul turned toward where John was standing, “Hmm?” he responded, absentmindedly reaching for the carton of cigarettes on the nightstand, pulling one out and feeling around for the lighter in one of his pockets. 

“What would you say about just staying in Paris for a few more days?” 

“John, it’s  _ your _ birthday…”

“Macca,  _ I know that, _ but we were planning on lots of time in Spain, but look outside!” John exclaims, pointing out the dirty window, down to a city street full of people. There were a couple of street vendors shouting something in French, obviously angry about something that neither Paul or John could understand. A gaggle of children were laughing and screeching as they sped down the street, pockets heavy and full of stolen merchandise from the two street vendors, who neglected to chase them: they were too quick. Couples held each other, soft music was playing, strings of lights danced across the tops of shops, and it was almost as if the city breathed life into those who inhabited it. It was almost as if the city of love held more soul than the two had ever experienced, it held  _ something more,  _ than their life back home. 

Paul gets up from his perch, walking slowly over to John, unlit cigarette in hand. “Look at that! Look at all of those people, all of that  _ life,  _ it’s so…” John trails off, looking for approval from Paul beside him, fingers still clamped around an unlit cigarette. 

“I’m happy to be anywhere with you, John,” Paul shrugs, lighting the cigarette, then immediately realizing how  _ incredibly strange _ that sounded, he hadn’t meant it in the way it came out. “I mean, it’s- John it’s your birthday, we can do whatever you want,” Paul backpedals, knowing how touchy John got with affection from others, and statements like that. John had never come at him for it, but he’d seen John’s angry side bite at the heels of Stu or Pete once or twice, and it was enough to make Paul cringe and hope he hadn’t overstepped. Shoving the cigarette into his mouth, he took a large drag, silently waiting for John’s response. 

“I just think we should explore around here a little bit before we continue on, see?” John motioned out the window, then reached for the smoke in Paul’s hand, taking it from him. Taking a quick drag, then blowing some smoke into the air, “I’ve never been to the City of Love, and I reckon we should give it a go…” John trails off, taking another drag of Paul’s cigarette before handing it back to him. 

“Sounds good to me,” Paul murmurs softly, lifting the cigarette to his lips, sucking in deeply, an ephemeral attempt to almost taste the lips that had wrapped around the cigarettes seconds ago. “A few extra days in Paris aren’t gonna hurt anybody,” Paul hums, breaking his eyes away from the window to look at John. 

The setting sun and lights from the street cast a subtle golden glow over John, making his hair look all the more auburn and his eyes shone a honey-filled amber that Paul felt he could nearly crawl inside of, wrapped in the warmth of a longing gaze. Soft shadows were cast over John’s cheeks and jawline, making them look even more defined than they really were, looking strong and pronounced. There was a profound glow about this version of John, a soft excited John, reeling at the prospect of experiencing something new: a version of John teetering on the brink of something completely unexplored, waiting to break through the surface. 

“What do you say we go have something good to eat?” John asked, excitedly, turning to face Paul, a soft smile spread across his lips. 

“I mean, we have money to spend, don’t we?” Paul smiles back, sheepishly.

__

John had found a way to get himself drunk off of cheap French wine that he’d swindled off of a vendor for half price in the street. They’d ended up walking away with two bottles for the price of one, the two of them already having made their way through the first bottle, milling around the streets of Paris behind a wash of tipsiness. Now onto their second bottle, making their way back to the cheap motel. Bringing the bottle to his lips, John took another swig, handing the bottle to his companion on the left of him. “Tastes better than any wine we have back home, hm?” John giggles, watching Paul tip the bottle back. The wine was smooth and almost went down like water, lacking the harsh acidity that the wine the boys were accustomed to carried. Making their way to the staircase up to their room, John took a couple more large draughts, humming at the sweetness.

It was easy to drink, and Paul realized, as John stumbled up the stairs, giggling, almost too easy to drink. Paul began to realize how drunk the two of them were, as John missed a step, clinging onto the railing of the staircase, his gentle laugh echoed throughout the space. Paul didn’t  _ feel  _ drunk, but the way his tongue felt heavy in his mouth as he tried to coax John up the stairs further, he  _ knew  _ he was. “Come on, John lad,” Paul slurs, grabbing his friend’s arm, guiding him up the last few steps to their floor. 

Somehow, through the grace of something holy, the boys managed to find their room, struggling to put the key into the lock to open their door. Paul eventually took the key from John’s hands, and slid the key into the lock easily, unlocking the door and opening it, allowing John to drunkenly stumble inside. “You’re pissed, mate,” Paul laughs, his words sloppy and heavy. 

“Says you! Look at the way you’re talkin’!” John exclaims, his speech less garbled by the alcohol, but his movements much slower than Paul’s. 

“At least I could make it up the stairs,” Paul laughs, slurring even harder, closing the door behind him, watching as John crawls onto the bed, covering himself in blankets, not bothering to take off any of his clothes, or even his shoes for that matter. 

“Oh, bugger off, would you?”

Paul laughs at that, watching John close his eyes, wrapped in the thin comforter, still cloaked in a leather jacket. Rolling his eyes, Paul began undressing, planning to hop in the shower in an attempt to sober up a bit, maybe drink a bit of water to try to fight off the inevitable wine-induced headache that he knew was coming. “I’m getting in the shower,” he tells John, looking over to find the boy already snoring softly, mouth open and everything. 

Shaking his head, Paul drops his pile of clothes onto the floor, and steps into the bathroom now in just his underwear. He looks at himself in the cloudy mirror for the first time that night, hair mussed, cheeks covered in a rosy tinge, lips plump and red. Leaning behind him, Paul fumbles to turn on the tap, hoping that the loudness of the water rushing through the pipes wouldn’t wake John. 

Slipping his underwear off, Paul shakily climbed into the shower, bracing himself with one hand on the shower wall. There was nothing in the shower but a thin, waxy bar of soap, but Paul supposed that this would have to do for freshening up, pressing the bar to his skin and rubbing it through his hair. The warm spray hitting his body, he felt languid, relaxed, seeming as though the alcohol that had affected his words was finally hitting his brain, making him move sluggishly as he stepped out of the shower. 

The difference between the warm shower and the room’s temperature raised goose bumps on Paul’s exposed skin. He fumbled for a towel, quickly wrapping himself in it, waddling out into the main part of the hotel room to grab for his clothes, which were tucked away somewhere in he and John’s shared suitcase. Feeling too drunk to care, he found a pair of underwear and one of their sleep shirts, before tiptoeing the best he could into bed. 

Falling against the bed, taking in the feel of the coarse comforter, Paul remembered that John was fully clothed underneath the duvet and sheets. Rolling his eyes, he stripped back the covers, to attempt to at least take John’s shoes off. Shoes on in the bed felt… like something that someone much drunker would have to do for it to be excusable. Leaning down, and swaying a bit in the process, Paul tugged at one of John’s boots, pulling it off after a little bit of a struggle. The other boot was tougher to get off, getting caught on John’s pant leg, and in the process of yanking on John’s leg, he awoke.

“The hell are ye doin’ touchin’ me feet, lad?” He asked, groggy, coaxing a frustrated sigh out of Paul. 

“It’s gross to wear yer shoes in the bed.”   
“It’s gross that yer wearin’ my sleepin’ shirt, but I didn’t say nothin did I?” John snapped, reaching down and tugging the remaining boot off and tossing it to the ground.

“Sorry, just… I just didn’t want you uncomfortable while you were sleeping,” Paul murmured dejectedly, suddenly extremely sobered up. “Reckon I’ll change then, my mistake,” He says, getting up from his perch on the side of the bed, going to switch out the shirt with another in the trunk. 

“Wait, Macca, I-I didn’t mean it so harsh, you know I don’t care if you wear me clothes, ‘m sorry, lad.” John shifts his tone, much softer now, sitting up in bed, quickly. Bracing himself against the wall, John began to unzip and take off his leather jacket, also tossing that to the ground. 

“It’s alright,” Paul says softly, still proceeding to take the shirt off, and switching it out for one of his. “Next time, I reckon I’ll just sleep on the floor,” He furthers, looking back at John, sitting on the bed still in drain-pipe trousers, a belt, and shirt from their day out. 

“Macca, don’t…” 

“It’s fine, John. Just go back to bed, yeah?” Paul says, grabbing a cigarette and walking over to stand by the window.

Feeling suddenly too tired to argue, John took off his trousers, balled them up, threw them onto the floor, rolled over and closed his eyes. 

Paul stared out the window for a while, just holding the carton of cigarettes in his hand, watching the nightlife unfold below him. Up against the brick wall of a shop across the street, a couple kissed softly under the soft light of the moon. A stray dog ran, zig-zagging through alleyways and under the feet of passersby. Cars slowly careened down the roads, the sounds of their engines dulled to just a rumble in the late night hour. Paul took out a cigarette, lighting it and taking quick puffs, so as to smoke it down as quickly as possible, placing the butt in the ashtray on the windowsill. 

He wasn’t sure what time it was by the time that he eventually crawled his way into bed, but his mind had finally become as tired as his body, as he nearly collapsed against the sheets. It didn’t take long for Paul to fall asleep, with just the sounds of the nightlife outside, and John’s soft snores from beside him.

__

John awoke the next morning from the light filtering into the room through the thin, chiffon curtains, with Paul’s soft sleeping figure pressed up against his chest. His soft hair smelled of the cheap soap from the bathroom, and the mock-silk fabric of his nightshirt felt smooth against John’s arms that had somehow found a way to wrap underneath the sleeping boy. 

John drank in the sight of him, fearing getting up so as to wake him, they’d gone to bed rather upset with one another, John’s habit of getting angry whilst drunk tended to seep into his mannerisms. Even though he could never _ really _ be upset with Paul, could never really be cross with him in any way, his drunk actions probably came across that way.    
When he’d met Paul, it sent a shockwave through him, he’d never seen someone so stunningly beautiful, and so incredibly talented. John had had his fair run around with lads, he and Stu experimenting with anything and everything at one point in their lives, but until he met Paul, getting with other lads was just another way to get off. It wasn’t  _ attraction,  _ per say, and it definitely wasn’t  _ romantic,  _ but there was something about the soft boy lying alongside him that made him throw all of that nonsense to the wind. 

Paul was everything he could ever want and more, rivaling the elegance of any bird he’d met, and beating them out in charm. There was something about Paul that he wanted to dive right into, and stay frozen there, wrapped up in  _ him.  _

And sure, there were nights when visions of Paul crept into his mind, thoughts he should've been embarrassed to even ponder of having. Nonetheless he’d always wind up flat on his back with a hand in his trousers, wondering if somewhere across Liverpool Paul had ever thought to do the same. And there was always one night that came back to him, a night where their lips met in a drunken haze behind the back of John’s aunt’s house, when they’d both collapsed, too pissed to even walk. But they’d never spoken of it, never brought it up again even for a second; either Paul didn’t remember or he’d regretted it, and John couldn’t bring himself to even mention the night, not wanting to ruin something that never even had the chance to really be. 

It didn’t matter anyroad. 

He and Paul were never meant to be like that, John stared up at the ceiling, his eyes following the cracks that wove their way above his head. He supposed that maybe in another time or place, things maybe could’ve been the way that they were supposed to, like he wanted them to be. 

__

“Do you think there’s anybody up there?” John asks, turning to Paul beside him, pointing up at the sky that stretched dark and star-filled above them. 

“How do you mean?” Paul sighed, stretching his arms above him, letting out a soft yawn, blinking his heavy eyelids to try to make out some of the constellations that floated above him. 

“Like some kind of god, Macca. D’you think he’s watchin’ us?” John waves his hand in front of Paul’s line of sight before picking up the bottle of Pastis and bringing it to his lips, wincing from the harsh taste of the alcohol. Pushing his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose, he sets the bottle bottle back down on the grass, but kept his hand firm around the neck of the bottle, almost as if it would run away if he didn’t keep a hold on it, 

“Well, I’d hope so,” Paul chuckles, turning his head to look at John, propping his head up by placing a bent arm behind his head. 

“It would be a shame if we were all just bein’ good for nothing, and there was no kinda reward at the end. I would think that was pretty rubbish honestly,” Paul laughs, turning to look at John who shook his head, small chuckles leaving his lips. 

The pair laid down in an open field, about a mile away from the Eiffel Tower, which they’d visited earlier in the day, taking an egregious amount of pictures of the sight and each other there. Walking from their sightseeing spot, they’d picked up a bottle of cheap French liquor from a store a couple of blocks away, and meandered their way from the tower to the middle of a grassy meadow-like area, plopping down, to watch the sunset over the beautiful city of Paris. Indulging in the cheap liquor and the lustre of their time away from home, the pair had enveloped themselves in the atmosphere of the city, laying much too close to one another as the stars began to make themselves known. 

“What about you, Johnny?” Paul asks, looking at John, who quickly turned to face Paul, propping his head up in the same way, their noses mere centimeters from touching. 

“Well, I guess we met,” he smirks, glassy eyes flickering from Paul’s eyes to his lips, then back up to his eyes again, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. “So, I suppose so.”   
“Funny thing is that, you know that we met, and that we got on,” John furthers, resting his head in the heel of his hand, elbow propping up the rest of his body, which had turned to face Paul directly. 

“And, why’s that, dear Lenny?”

“Oh, I suppose I realized I was more queer than I ever imagined.” John laughs, passing the bottle to Paul easily, the alcohol numbing the gravity of the words, and making Paul laugh too, his belly bouncing easily with each giggle. 

“Queerer than you ever imagined, eh? Am I really that good lookin’?” Paul taunts playfully, lifting his head slightly to take a drink from the bottle, finding it still rather full. Paul’s head felt light, almost dizzy, but his words were firm, yet lighthearted. He was just joking around with his best mate, his heart felt like it could soar, almost as if he and John were floating on clouds through the Parisian night sky. 

“Oh piss off, Paulie. Yer good lookin’ and you know it,” John scoffs, his voice still cheerful. “Prettiest lad I ever met,” He says, voice barely above a whisper, looking hesitantly over at Paul from where his head laid against his hand, softly gazing at the boy next to him, eyes full of admiration and truth. 

“Thought you were good lookin’, too, John. Right stunner you are,” Paul breathes, no longer looking at John, but had taken to turning his gaze upward, towards the stars, not wanting to look his partner in the face as the words left his lips. “Wanted you to like me so bad,” he mutters, squinting his eyes to focus on Polaris shining big and bright above him, rather than the twisting of the knots in his stomach, only proliferated by the silence that came from John.

The silence that lasted  _ much  _ too long in Paul’s opinion. For what felt like eons, all he could hear was the sound of the blood rushing behind his ears, making a hammering sound, echoing the beat of his own fluttering heart.  _ God say something, anything! Sock me in my goddamned gut if you have to. Jesus Christ, John, come on.  _ Paul’s stomach churned as he tried to inhale, suddenly his heart having crawled into his throat, blocking any air from really getting much of anywhere. He felt like he was suffocating, until he finally heard John move from beside him. 

“Would it be okay if I kissed ye?” John asks, softly, voice barely audible to Paul over the sound of his own thrumming pulse.  _ Kiss him. Oh god kiss him again, not so drunk this time. _

“Please,” the soft phrase left Paul’s lips almost as a prayer, one sent up to the heavens, hoping that someone would hear his cry. 

With his own heartbeat pounding just as hard as Paul’s, John leaned down and pressed his lips to the boys as gently as he knew how, nervous and tentative, barely having done anything like this without so much as being knee-walking drunk. Paul’s lips were just as hesitant, but kissed back nonetheless, carefully, nearly, gingerly, so as not to make a mistake. To John his lips were just as soft as anybody he’d been with, just as plump, with a touch just as gentle. But to Paul, the feeling of John’s slight stubble and the thin, chapped lips, and the lack of the taste of waxy lipstick sent shockwaves through Paul.  _ He was kissing John.  _

_ And he really, really,  _ really,  _ liked it.  _

Pulling away, John looked down at the boy laying flat on the grass, staring up at him, having gone almost limp on the ground. Paul smiles up at him softly, his cheeks aglow with the excitement and newness of it all, basking in the radiance of this feeling. “Soft lad,” John whispered, a small smile spreading across his lips.

“Can we do that again?” Paul asks sheepishly, suddenly feeling more drunk than he had in ages, intoxicated by the newfound freedom that was the part of the pair’s relationship that they had as good as stumbled into: just a little bit drunk, a little bit hesitant, but sure of their intentions all in all. 

__

The trip morphed from a holiday to get drunk and have a good laugh, to becoming something that neither of the two would forget, hands intertwined secretively, affection masked in unsure giggles and longing glances. Nights were spent pressed up against one another, mouths mapping the places they’d dared to go with their fantasies, but never with the boy that they cared for right in front of them. The wee hours of the morning were spent wallowing in the comfort of a feeling so foreign, yet so certain.

Words left their lips easier, laughs rang a little clearer, eyes shone a little brighter, and something lingered from the city of love, something that the two carried with them: a memory of something that no one could take away. There’s something about experiencing something new that never quite leaves the mind. 

_ Paris _ . 

Masquerading through crowded streets, echoing laughs following in the footsteps of the eager stomping of boots, and the chilling exhilaration of what it feels like to fall in love for the first time, to admit that  _ this just might be what love feels like,  _ what love  _ is.  _ Falling head over heels, bending over backwards, for a laugh from someone you cared about more than anything. Yes, Paul always surmised that there was something about Paris that he’d never forget, something to keep in the back pocket of your heart for a rainy day, so when the foundation’s shaky you will know where you stand. Whether it be the heaviness of a bracelet around the wrist of a lover, a constant reminder that you are with them, or a memory tucked back into the darkest corner of the mind. Yes, there would always be something about Paris. 

“So Mr. McCartney, if you had any idea what heaven looked like,” The interviewer begins from the chair opposite Paul, “What would you surmise that your version of heaven looks like?” 

Paul smiles, looking down at the silver bracelet that rests loosely on his wrist, reaching out to touch it softly, he glances back up at the interviewer across from him. “Oh, well, I dunno if there even is a heaven,” he chuckles, his voice weathered from age.

“But if there was…” the interviewer presses, leaning forward, towards Paul, “What do you think it would look like?” 

“Well I suppose- I suppose if there was a heaven, it would look a little something like a wild getaway with your greatest friend.” Paul presses two of his fingers to his pursed lips. “It would be like… I dunno… a trip to Paris, or maybe a trip to Spain through France. Yeah. I reckon that’s it. That’s heaven.” 

**Author's Note:**

> hey, sorry for being MIA. thank you for reading! not gonna lie this was really hard for me to write, and I hope it doesn't show that. I've been in such a writer's block lately that it's been tough to find the motivation to do much! In any case,,, come hand out w me on Tumblr, twitter, and insta (users are all @/someforeignband) THIS WAS UNEDITED IM SO SORRY
> 
> THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH FOR READING HOLY CANNOLI THANK YOU


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